The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FIFTY





THEY REACHED THE top of the pass not long before dusk. The miller halted. It had taken them two days to reach this point, the road winding its way along the flanks of the hills, through fir forest, past farms and one half-empty village. Jaumé had learned that the family was from Andín and that the man was a miller. He learned the boys names were Luc and Gerrey. Luc was the same age Rosa had been: five. Gerrey was three.

“There you are, lad.” The miller pointed. “The sea.”

They ate while the sun set. The miller and his wife shared their food with him: bread, cheese, cured meat.

The world was spread before them. A plain stretched north, south, west. It looked like a quilt, a patchwork of fields and villages. In the distance, the dark blue of the sea blended into the paler sky. “Are we safe now?” Jaumé asked.

The miller shook his head. “We won’t be safe until we’re on the other side of the sea.”

“Where’s the other side?” Jaumé asked.

“Lundegaard,” the miller said. “Or Osgaard. But the curse will reach there in time. To be truly safe, we need to get to the Allied Kingdoms, up over the equator.”

Jaumé stored the names carefully in his memory. Lundegaard. Osgaard. The Allied Kingdoms.





THEY SLEPT UNDER the wagon. In the middle of the night, Jaumé woke. The miller and his wife were arguing in quiet voices.

“—only eight years old,” the miller said.

“We’ll run out of food.”

“But—”

“You must think of your sons!”





IN THE MORNING the miller said, “We’ll part ways with you here, lad.”

Jaumé hugged his blanket more tightly around him and nodded.

“Just follow this road,” the miller said. “When you reach Cornas, find a ship that will take you away from here.”

Jaumé nodded again. Lundegaard. Osgaard. The Allied Kingdoms. The names were engraved in his memory.

He watched the miller harness the horses and attach them to the shaft. The children scrambled into the wagon. The miller climbed up on the driver’s seat. At the last moment, the miller’s wife thrust half a loaf of bread at him. “Here,” she said, and then she bundled her skirts in one hand and clambered up alongside her husband.

The miller looked down at him. “Be careful, lad. It’s every man for himself.”

Jaumé nodded, clutching the bread.

The wagon started forward. The children waved at him.

Jaumé lifted a hand in farewell. He watched the wagon until it was out of sight.